Home
by MeanMisterMustard
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street - but will it ever be 'Home' again? No slash, just platonic loveliness. Rated T for language only.


Obligatory John/Sherlock reunion fic: check. Soundtrack to this fic: Home - Broken Records. Reviews are sparkly and magical and most exceedingly welcomed. Hope you enjoy. :)

Home

Chapter One: Broken Things

"Oh - shit!" John cursed quietly as his mug of tea fell to the floor and smashed into several pieces. This had become something of a regular occurrence - ever since Sherlock had died, John's tremor had returned gradually, steadily getting worse as his time alone without the brilliant detective slowly ticked on.

He knelt clumsily to the floor to pick up the pieces of porcelain, cautiously attempting to avoid the pool of hot tea. Not only had his tremor returned to him with a relentless fervour, his limp had come back too. It had been only a few months ago that he had finally given in to necessity and started using the cane again. Nobody had said anything, but he knew they had all noticed. He was sick and tired of everyone treating him as though he were as fragile as the cups and saucers he seemed to be breaking on a daily basis. He was fine, he had grieved, it had been difficult but he had finally managed to say goodbye, and to give up hope that this was all some elaborate ruse on Sherlock's behalf.

Emotionally he felt perfectly stable, he could laugh, he was able to work - his tremor subsiding slightly while his mind was focused on a task such as treating a patient - he was eating fine, he was getting much better at keeping the flat clean and tidy, relying less and less on Mrs Hudson for things. All in all - he was coping. Yet his treacherous body seemed unable to shake the loss of his best friend. His legs longed to run, to chase, his hands itched for a trigger or throat or pulse. And his brain clearly missed staying up all night, for all he seemed able to sleep.

Occasionally, he still had night terrors - they mainly consisted of memories of the war - but were sometimes mingled with Sherlock's face, or the whip of his coat tails... his note. But it wasn't the terrors that kept him up at night, somehow, sleep just wouldn't come to him. He laughed with bitter irony at the fact that he now averaged little more sleep than Sherlock had done, when he was alive.

'_When he was alive_... he can sleep forever now.' It was thoughts like this that shook John slightly, and those were the moments he wished someone were there - anyone. He had considered getting a girlfriend, gone on a few dates even, but all the conversations, the flirting, even the odd one night stand seemed unfulfilling and tedious. "_Dull_." Sherlock's disinterested monotone occasionally flitted through his head, and it made him smile.

It had been almost three years. Three years and the flat looked practically the same. He hadn't redecorated - the smiley face and bullet holes lingered on the wall. He hadn't thrown things out, not particularly because he wanted to keep them, not because they held any sentimental value to him (save, perhaps, the violin... and the skull... and the microscope), but because it didn't seem like his place to dispose of things. A few months after Sherlock's death, he had considered calling Mycroft to see if he wanted to take some of it, but in truth he was still so angry with him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to speak. Besides, he doubted he'd want any of it really. So it stayed put.

John managed to pick up the pieces of broken mug and place them on the counter. Steadying himself with one hand on the back of a chair and one on the work surface he hauled himself up, with some effort, his leg protesting with a harsh ache.

He carefully mopped up the pool of tea and placed the broken fragments of porcelain into the bin, and then opened the cupboard to find that there were only two mugs left in there. One was his army mug, the British Armed Forces crest proudly emblazoned on the surface, and the other had been Sherlock's preferred mug. He said the shape and weight of it made tea drinking altogether more straight forward and enjoyable. At the time John had rolled his eyes, but now the mug seemed to hold a significance, seemed as valuable as the army mug.

John, utterly dismayed at the fact he was allowing sentiment to override necessity, found that he didn't have the heart to subject either of these mugs to the inevitable fate of being dropped and broken. Tea, however, needed to happen, and soon.

He allowed his shoulders to sag, still standing in front of the open cupboard, himself and Sherlock in mug form staring back at him. He closed the cupboard door resignedly and made his way, slowly limping over to the door, picking up his coat, keys and wallet on the way. He fancied some fresh air anyway.


End file.
